Four weeks ago today, I embarked on what has been a most magical journey. At 6:04 p.m. on Friday, April 21, I was 37 1/2 weeks pregnant. At 6:05, my water broke and I was offically in labor and on my way to becoming a mother.

What follows is the story of my son's birth. Several people have asked me to post an account of that event, and it's taken me almost this entire month to write down all the details. Those of you who know me know that I can pay a little too much attention to details. The uncut version of this story, for example, is more than seven pages long in single-spaced 12-point Times New Roman. If you'd like to read that "special edition," complete with photos of the placenta, I'd be happy to forward you a copy. The rest of you, click on the link for the abridged (but still pretty darn long) version.

Harper Ford Reese: A Birth Story

Preface: On Friday, April 21, I woke up feeling really energetic. I had a huge craving at lunch for an egg-salad sandwich, so I made a small Tupperware full of egg salad. Then I went to Trader Joe's top stock up on ingredients for easy dinners, plus juice and "Smart Water," an electrolyte drink that's good for staying hydrated (I wanted to try to avoid an IV at the hospital, and I hate Gatorade and other sweet energy drinks). For some reason, I kept going back to the shelf with the Smart Water. First I just picked up one big bottle; then I thought, perhaps I should get a second; ultimately, I went back for a third. As I loaded my bags into the car, I cursed the employee who bagged my groceries in as few bags as possible, with all the bottles of Smart Water and the bottle of wine I'd bought for Byrne all in the same bag. The thing weighed like 50 pounds!

Then I came home and sorted laundry, a task that had recently become pretty difficult since my belly prevented me from bending over at all. I thought better of carrying the baskets down the stairs to the basement, however, instead making little post-it notes with temperature and setting instructions for each load so Byrne could put them in when he got home.

Nesting much?

By 5 p.m., I was ready to plop down on the couch for a snack and some TV. Around 6 p.m., I was watching a TiVoed episode of Seinfeld and eating Kashi TLC cheese crackers, the same ones I had eaten throughout my pregnancy and that always made the baby very active. Suddenly, I felt what seemed like the baby throwing his or her arms and legs out with full force; it felt like my entire belly jolted. Then, there was a small burst of watery liquid spurting out of me. I went to the bathroom, but nothing more was leaking out. I decided to go lie down for a minute; I had read that if one's water did break, it would continue to leak if you were lying down. After a few minutes with no more trickling, I began to think (hope?) that it was a fluke, and I got up to unload the dishwasher. (Still nesting, I guess).

As I was putting away the clean glasses, I suddenly felt a lot of downward pressure, sort of like I had to pee but definitely a different feeling. It may have been a contraction. I headed into the bathroom and as I was pulling down my jeans, the flood came. There was no doubt at this point--my water had broken. There was also a tiny bit of blood. I remember sitting on the toilet, staring straight ahead in a daze, and saying aloud, "This is it. Okay. Okay." I went into the kitchen to call Byrne. Right before I called, I had a contraction. It was definite, but I was still able to move and talk.

Byrne answered his cell phone with "I'm on my way out the door."
"Good, because I think my water just broke."
"What?"
"I think my water just broke."
"Really? Are you serious?"
"Yes." I recounted recent events, from cracker-eating to floodgates opening.
"OK, I am grabbing a cab."

Another contraction.

I then called my doctor's answering service and left a message. I learned that my doctor, Dr. Gentry, was out of town, and that the doctor on call, Dr. Wharton, would be calling me back shortly.

Another contraction.

Then I called Treesa, my doula. She said, "Yep, your water has definitely broken." I told her I'd called the doctor and had what I thought may have been a contraction or two. She said she'd call back in a few hours to check in, but if I wanted her to come over sooner, I should just call her back. She told me to drink as much water and juice as I could, eat something if I could manage it, and sleep if possible. As if, I thought. I poured a huge glass of Smart Water and downed it.

Another contraction.

Dr. Wharton called back.He confirmed that I was in labor, and asked if this was my first baby. He said I should call him if the contractions are 4 minutes apart for an hour, but that he'd call back in a few hours to check in. I began to get the feeling I was in for a long night.

Another contraction.

Byrne got home around 6:30. Our neighbor, Kurt, saw the taxi zipping down the street and Byrne get out in a rush and asked if everything was OK. Byrne told him that my water broke. We found out later that this set into motion a few days of suspense among all the neighbors (and that Kurt's wife thought he meant that the water main to our house broke when he relayed the news). When we didn't show up for a community cleanup project at the city rose garden the next day (it was Earth Day), they all knew the baby must have come.

Byrne started timing my contractions, which were becoming longer and more intense. It was getting to the point that I didn't want to talk or move while they were going on. I would just lean my forehead against the wall or the back of the couch or on the birth ball or wherever I was at that point, and sway, and moan deeply with every exhale. It helped me get through each one. I was surprised, even at the time, at how I got right into a zone with each contraction and how un-self-conscious I felt making all that noise and just doing what I had to do. I'd shut my eyes, try to keep the muscles in my face, neck, and shoulders soft, and just breathe, and moan.

Treesa called back and talked to Byrne. She asked if we were OK or if we wanted her to come over. I told Byrne I thought we'd be OK on our own a little longer. It's weird how time warps when you're living in 5-minute increments. I don't think I realized how long I'd been having contractions so close together. I tried to have some applesauce, but could only manage one bite. There was just too much going on inside. Byrne decided he better get himself something to eat, so he ordered a pizza. I felt vaguely nauseated as I heard him in the other room on the phone asking for a "Medium with spinach, tomatoes, black olives and feta."

After only about 10 minutes (and three contractions) more, I told Byrne, "I want Treesa here." He called and she said she was on her way. She called a few minutes later from her car and said she was about 20 minutes away. I asked, alarmed, "Twenty minutes?!" Treesa later told us she was close to our house but was hoping to stop and get gas in her car. When she heard my reaction, she decided to skip the gas. Meanwhile, Dr. Wharton called to check in. As Byrne was talking to him, a contraction came and I moaned through it. Dr. Wharton told Byrne, "I can hear your wife, and I think you better come to the hospital soon."

The contractions were never more than 7 minutes apart from the moment that my water broke.

When Treesa came, I was in the TV room on my knees with my head, arms, and chest draped over the birth ball. She got right down on the floor with me, put her face close to mine and asked, "How are you doing?" I don't remember what I said. Another contraction came and she stayed there with me, rubbing my back, and moaning along with me. She asked me if I had gone pee recently, and I said not since my water had broken, so she helped me to the bathroom. As I sat there on the toilet, with Treesa perched on the edge of the bathtub in front of me, another contraction came. After it had passed, I told Treesa I was feeling a lot of downward pressure and that I wanted to go to the hospital. She asked if I felt like I wanted to push and I said I didn't think so. She told me what would happen once we got to the hospital--that we would go to the Labor and Delivery triage, and they would examine my cervix for dilation. "I don't want you to get hung up on the number," she said. "They could give you what you think is a low number, but things could move quickly, so don't be discouraged."

She helped me up and into the living room. I went to the coat closet and struggled to pick out a jacket--even though I felt like I was burning up and the rest of my "outfit"--my pull-on velour yoga pants, a white tank, and a red button-down maternity shirt and clogs--wasn't much of an ensemble to begin with. Byrne got on the phone to cancel his pizza. "I need to cancel an order," he said, telling the guy his name and the pizza order. "My wife is having a baby and we're going to the hospital now." He repeated this last sentence twice. He later told me that the guy on the other end was incredulous, and kept asking, "Wait, what?"

As we got our stuff ready to take to the car, I began to feel hot flashes. Treesa asked if I was feeling lightheaded, and I told her a little, so she pulled a cold pack out of her suitcase and applied it to the back of my neck (as I stood there holding the jacket I thought I needed). It was like heaven, that little bit of cold. Turns out that would be the only thing she would have to (or have time to) pull from her bag of labor tricks.

We got into the car with all our bags of stuff (we were the quintessential first-time laboring parents with way too much gear) and Treesa got into the back seat. The contractions were coming pretty close together by now. Between contractions, I felt like I was in a sort of haze. I'd close my eyes and not really sleep, but sort of drift away from things. By the time we hit Highway 24 to Berkeley, the pressure I'd felt earlier felt more intense, though I still couldn't tell if I felt the urge to push. I told Treesa the pressure was stronger. "Is the baby coming out??" she asked, suddenly sounding urgent, less calm than before. "I don't think so," I said. Then I heard her tell Byrne, "If I tell you to pull over, don't argue with me. Just find the nearest spot you can, and pull over." I don't know why this didn't freak me out; it probably should have. Byrne later told me that he was white knuckles on the steering wheel and pedal to the medal after Treesa said that.

We arrived at the hospital and Byrne parked in the loading zone. Treesa ran in to get a wheelchair. She came back with a chair and a security guard, who helped get me into it. As we approached the entrance, I was moaning through a pretty strong contraction. There was a group of people sitting on the benches outside and I noted the look of freaked-outedness on their faces as I wheeled past. I overheard them tell Byrne, "She is havin' that baby soon!"

As we entered the hospital, the security guard who was pushing the chair was doing the whole "Out of the way! Coming through!" I don't think he said, "Lady with a baby!", but in my imagination, he did. In the midst of all the commotion, I distinctly remember thinking it was kind of cool that the scene resembled something out of ER.

I don't remember the elevator ride, but once we got to Labor and Delivery on the third floor, one of the nurses took one look at me and said, "Let's just go straight to a room." Once there, Treesa and the nurse helped me get my pants and underwear off (I kept on my white tank top, a white tank top that needless to say is now history) and get me up onto the bed. One of the nurses examined me, and said, "Nine and a half centimeters. She's just got a tiny lip left at the bottom of the cervix, but she can start pushing if she wants to." I couldn't believe what I was hearing. It had only been three and a half hours since I had gone into labor. I hardly felt the physical urge to push, and I didn't feel a mental desire to push, either. "But," I thought, "It's now or never. The baby is coming! Let's do it."

Soon after, Dr. Wharton came in and introduced himself. He said that his own son was born in that room (Delivery Room #8) eight years ago, so it was a lucky room. The nurses strapped a fetal monitor to my belly. I had requested in my birth plan that the monitoring be done only intermittently, but I can't remember if they ever took the monitor off. There was a computer next to the bed, and nurses kept coming over to it and typing and clicking the mouse. I guess they were documenting the labor, but at the time, I was associating those noises with someone surfing the Internet, and for a second, I actually wondered, "How could they be on the computer while I am right here giving birth??"

I told them that my throat was feeling so dry, so they brought me a cup of the notorious ice chips, which Byrne and Treesa fed to me with a plastic spoon throughout the next few hours. Treesa asked what position I'd like to push in. I'd thought about this a million times before, but when it came down to making the decision, I had no idea. I did tell them that I wanted the squatting bar attached to the bed. I had these odd moments of clarity throughout labor, and it was then that I remembered our friends Andy and Clare telling us to request the squatting bar as soon as we could if we wanted it, because it took the nurses forever to find one when Clare had been there to deliver their son a few months before.

They attached the squatting bar and adjusted the back of the bed so that it was almost vertical, like a chair. Treesa helped me get into position and told me to push with the next contraction. On the next contraction, I pushed with all my might, but it felt like nothing. I was pushing so hard that I kind of screamed with the exhale at the end as my energy flagged. Treesa said, "No, hold it in. Hold it as long as you can. Put all that energy into the push." I tried with the next one, but still, after pushing that hard and long, my body needed the release.

Laura, one of the nurses, kept saying "Awesome! You're doing awesome, Arin!" Byrne leaned down to my ear and whispered, "Do you want me to ask Laura to stop saying awesome?" I sort of brushed him away, saying, "No, whatever, I don't care," but inside, I was laughing, and I laughed a lot about that moment later. It was so us, to notice that the cheerleadery nurse kept saying awesome, and to be bugged by it.

I kept pushing with every contraction, but I didn't feel like I was making any progress. Dr. Wharton came and went. Every time he'd come in, sit down and watch for a few minutes, and then leave, I felt so discouraged, like he was giving up on me ever having this baby. Later, Treesa told me that doctors leave the room because they have a sort of superstition that the baby won't come if they're there watching.

Every once in a while, I'd feel what a good push felt like--it felt as though I was opening up a little more. I wanted every push to feel that way, but most didn't. When I pushed the right way, Treesa and all the nurses said, "Yes! Yes! Like that! Take a quick breath and do another one just like that." Byrne later told me that he could see the baby's head moving down a little when I would do a good push.

As each contraction would die down, I'd collapse back on the bed. And as the next would approach, my entire body began to tremor uncontrollably. Byrne later said that that's how he and Treesa knew to hold onto my legs and brace me for the next push; they didn't need to look at the monitor. I tried a ton of positions: squatting, lying on my side, sitting up, and finally, when my left hip started to cramp with each push, on my back with my legs in a sort of baddha konasana yoga pose (feet together, knees akimbo).

I was burning up the whole time; they kept giving me a cold washcloth, which I kept draped over my face and rubbed on the back of my neck. They also finally put an oxygen mask on my face; Byrne said the nurses were talking about my blood pressure getting a little low, and they were worried that I was exhausted. (I never did have an IV, though, according to my birth plan--I only wanted one if I was determined to be dehydrated, which I never was. Thank you, Smart Water and ice chips!). They also kept talking my temperature; apparently I had a slight fever. I never worried that I'd get through it, though. I knew I was in competent hands and that everyone was looking out for me and the baby. That thought kept me going.

After a couple of hours of pushing, though, I began to feel frustrated. I didn't feel like I was making any progress, and I was getting tired. I said, "I'm pushing as hard as I can--why isn't the baby coming?" I whined to the baby, "Please, come." Treesa said, "Maybe it's time, instead of asking 'Please, come,' to get a little mad and say, 'Come out right now!'" Then all the nurses said, "That's right, baby! You come out and see your Mommy right now!"

Finally, Dr. Wharton came back into the room and said, "You know, I think 3 hours is enough. Let's get this baby out." I searched the faces of the people in the room. What was he talking about? Is he talking C-section? Did I just labor without pain medication and push for 3 hours to have a C-section?! Treesa read my mind. "Can you be more specific?" she asked. Dr. Wharton looked surprised that we didn't know what he was talking about. "I want to use the vacuum extractor to give you a little help," he said. I think he actually gave me a number, like "It'll give you 25 percent more for each push." I had no idea how he could know that, but it sounded good to me.

I don't remember much about them prepping for the procedure; I purposefully did not look in the doctor's direction because I didn't want to see the machinery he was about to put inside of me. I think he explained what he was about to do. I asked him if he was going to cut me, and he said, "No, we shouldn't need to," which surprised and relieved me because I thought an episiotomy was required for the vacuum, and I so did not want an episiotomy.

What I do remember with utter clarity, and will for the rest of my life, was exactly what it felt like when the doctor inserted the vacuum cup, which they attach to the baby's head with suction. It was the first time during the entire labor that I felt totally comsumed by pain. The word searing, as used to describe pain, now has new meaning to me. I screamed, a blood-curdling, true, completely uninhibited scream. Treesa said, "Blow, blow it out," and I tried, but dear God, the fire. The vacuum slipped off and the doctor had to reinsert it. I felt as though I was being ripped open. With the vacuum finally attached and the next contraction coming, Dr. Wharton told me to give a good strong push. I think it may have taken a couple of pushes, I don't remember. And then, more pain. Excruciating pain. Johnny Cash may have fallen into a burning ring of fire, but I fell in and then had to claw my way out again. I pushed as hard as I could. I blew. And then Treesa yelled, "Open your eyes! Arin, look down!" I did, and there I saw the most amazing, unbelievable, surreal thing: the face of my baby. Frankly, he looked pissed. The rest of him was still inside of me, but with one push, he came slithering out. He started screaming, that wrinkled, cheesy little baby. The baby that just a moment ago was inside of me. I couldn't believe it. Byrne had him in his hands, and he yelled, "It's a boy! Oh my god!" (He had helped the doctor pull him out, and later told me that though he had wanted do it himself as we planned, the baby was so slippery that he asked the doctor to help.)

Byrne placed the baby on my chest, and Treesa said, "Look! It's your baby!" I was sobbing with joy and relief, this totally dry sort of sob that verged on uncontrollable giggling. Byrne was crying, too. We looked at each other in total amazement--eyes wide, mouths agape. We tried to kiss, but it was tough, with all the crying and laughing and our agape mouths. My baby, all covered in primordial oozy stuff, lay on my chest, atop the white tank top that is now history. I'll never forget what he felt like, all warm and slippery and a little sticky. "He has hair!" Byrne said. (The babies in both of our families are usually born cue-ball bald.) I kissed his little head, ooze and all. I said, "Hi, baby! Hi!" Treesa asked if we had a name picked out. "Yes," Byrne said, "Harper Ford." And then we all welcomed him by name.

Then it was time to deliver the placenta. With the next contraction, I gave one strong push and out it came. It felt kind of good, actually, all slick and soft. The doctor asked if we wanted to see it. "Oh, yeah!" I said. I surprised myself there, but I was so glad to see it--what an amazing organ, and made completely from scratch by me for my baby. Byrne took pictures while the doctor held the thing up, and then they clamped the cord and Byrne cut it.

After we all had a little time to continue to look at each other in total wonder, they took Harper to weigh, measure, bathe, and swaddle him. It all took place in the room just feet from my bed, and Byrne helped the nurses with the bath. While the boys were off having fun, the doctor was getting ready to stitch me up ("Your son gave you a 'natural episiotomy,'" he said.) It really hurt when he injected the area with local anesthetic. Treesa held my hand. "I didn't think anything could hurt after that!" I said. Once the anesthetic took effect, the doctor began his stitching. But I was so absorbed in watching Harper already that I didn't notice what was going on. All I could think was, "There's my son. There's my son with his father. That's my family. I am a mother."

Byrne brought Harper to me all wrapped up (the nurse who came in to help with the bath had a special technique where he somehow made a little hood with the blanket, so our Little Bug looked like a caterpillar peeking out of the cocoon). Harper latched on to my breast right away, and ate his first meal. I thought I knew what happy felt like. But I had no idea before 12:38 a.m. on April 22, 2006.